


This Terrible Price of Peace

by Zagzagael



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zagzagael/pseuds/Zagzagael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>19 years later and "all was well" for everyone but George.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_19 Years Later..._

 _It is August and the Hogwarts letters have been sent and received. Nerves unsettled and calmed. Parents closing their eyes and seeing their childselves beckoning from a doorway far behind them, over their shoulder, looking back wistfully. Children, wide eyed, the world unfolding before them, magical origami of their own futures acting as signposts pointing “this way, just this way now”. And the rushed morning on Platform 9 & ¾, memories as solid as a trolley to the shin, possibilities as tantalizing as the smell of leather and coal. _

Ron and Ginny see their children off, Ron snuffles tears away and Ginny wipes them with the back of her hand. They meet, apart from the others, heads bent towards one another and they whisper.

Ron is nodding. “Right, right. I’ll go then.”

Ginny looks up into his eyes, there is so much of herself she sees in his face, his posture. Suddenly she throws her arms around his neck and pulls him towards her and he holds her tightly. Then she draws away and this time she doesn’t dry her tears but whispers through them. “See if you can’t bring him to dinner Sunday.”

Ron nods, overcome.

One hour later and he’s climbing the rickety dark staircase over “The Triumphant Sword” pub in Diagon Alley. He steps over a witch, passed out on the floor of the narrow hallway and uses his knuckles pressed hard under his nose to block the stale smell of urine. A small dirty window lets in a smudged morning light at the far end and the door on the left is cracked open and Ron shakes his head at this but reaches out for the knob and pushes the door inward.

The room is gloomy in its unnatural darkness and he realizes that its been spelled to be dark and dank and he moves to the roller shade and with a quick flick of his wand, the shade clatters upward angrily. He shakes the wand at the room and the false forever night dissolves, melting into the dirty floorboards. He turns to the cot pressed against the wall and George is lying there, curled onto his side, knees nearly touching his chest. He is as still as a corpse but his eyes are open and he’s looking at his brother. Ron can feel the cold emotion rolling off the fetal form towards him. It snakes around him dangerously, small fanged bites of pain on his ribs.

“Stop that. I’ll leave.”

“Spell accomplished.” George’s voice is raspy.

But the biting stops although the sting remains.

Ron looks around the filthy room, empty bottles littering the corners, the bureau top covered with flasks and crumpled bits of parchment. He rights a wooden chair and sits heavily.

“Sunday dinner at Ginny and Harry’s. We want to see you.”

“See me do what?”

“George.”

“That’s my name say it again I’ll tell you the same.”

Ron feels his heart break a tiny bit. “That’s bloody stupid.”

“I’m stupid.”

Ron stands furious impotent. He walks to the window and manually throws the sash. The morning air moves tentatively into the room. He leans out and breathes deeply. The contrast between the room his brother lives in and the outside world is so marked that he cannot help but feel a kind of hopelessness wash over him.

He takes a different tack. “First day of term.”

The silence from the bed is as loud as a scream. Instinctively he covers his ears, then lowers his hands feeling caught out and ridiculous.

“Were you all down at the station, then?” George sits slowly and Ron feels a fearful relief at this movement, but then his brother reaches beneath the cot for a glass bottle. Ron has never seen such a simple yet complicated contraption. He knows it is not magical in design. George has muttered an incendiary charm and has his lips around a straw and is inhaling the grey smoke generated inside the bottle.

“Oh, hell no. No, George. No!”

George holds the smoke around pursed lips, eyes downcast. He opens his mouth, “Muggle drugs aren’t detectable.” The smoke billows out between his lips, with a practised puff of air, he transforms it into a dimensioned star polygon. The star disintegrates, one piece at a time.

“You need help.”

“Help is on its way.” He puts the glass jar back on the floor and scoots himself into the corner of the walls. Knees still up to his chest and Ron cannot help but see how vulnerable his brother is.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

George shook his head. “Nothing. It all means nothing, Ronnie. Don’t worry. Go back to your beautiful life leave me to mine.”

“I want to help you, George. We all want to help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Dammit, George. You’re talking as though you swallowed a Riddling Lozenge. Stop it.”

A single shoulder shrug, but he has the good graces to blush a bit and nods. “Okay.”

“Please come to dinner. Get out of here for a day. You haven’t seen the kids since," he pauses awkwardly, "well, it’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Since that dreadful War Anniversary horrorshow? Feels like yesterday.”

Ron nods. He suddenly knows he has to get out of the room, out of the pub, the Alley, anywhere but there. He lets out a rattled breath and George looks up at him. His eyes are not focussed and Ron cannot bear to hold the gaze.

“I’ll come.”

“Really? You will?”

“I want to ask Hermione something.”

Ron feels a chill move down his spine, but he suppresses it. He watches as his big brother begins the descent into a place that only he can go. George’s eyes close and his head falls forward, a sickening kind of sleep. The Muggle version of Draught of the Living Death. Ron sits down slowly. He presses both fists into his eye wells until stars explode on the insides of his lids. As always, he asks himself, “What would ‘Mione do?” And then he stands and begins to tidy the room. It is far from perfect, far from anything Hermione or Ginny would do and it takes him forty minutes; George in another place another time. Finally he walks over to the bed and gently encourages his brother into a supine position, covers him with the now clean quilt, tucking the edges of it around his body, feeling how thin he has become. He leans closer to whispers something or other into the scarred ear, but George speaks first.

“Fred? Tha' you?” He begins to whimper. “Please...”

Ron lays a heart-heavy hand on George’s shoulder, whispers a calming charm that moves from his mouth down his arm and out his fingers and into his brother. Beneath his hand, George quiets, and later Ron could not say how long he had stood there, rooted to this broken man, before he quietly turned and left.


	2. Chapter 2

For three days George slipped and slid under the influence of the muggle drug. He smoked and slept, staggered out of the room, down the stairs and put a ploughman’s on his tab, overpaid the bartender for a drink, asked for and received an uncorked bottle of brandywine, went back up to his room where the drunken young witch from the hallway was now asleep in his bed, shoved her over a bit, drank half the bottle of wine then tucked the bottled into crook of the witch’s arm, and smoked the last of his superstash before blessed unconsciousness reached up for him once more. He let his body fall like a hammer beside the witch whose name he could not remember and dreamslept until Thursday morning.

He woke to someone nuzzling a spot beneath his jaw. His movements were languorously stupoured but he was surprised to find that he didn’t feel completely shredded. The sound of his days-old beard rasping against someone’s lips helped crack his eyelids. He pulled far and fast enough away from the young witch to look down into her face and see her disappointment. “Oi, now, that’s enough of that, missy.”

“George.” She pouted.

“You know it can’t be like that,” he paused hoping her name might magically inscribe itself upon his tongue but it did not, “girl.”

She lifted the bottle he’d forgotten to her lips, pulling hard. “Thanks for the brandywine.”

He nodded. “Us lot have got to watch out for each other, luv. Now I’ve got to get up, try for a bath, and find an owl.” He peered at her. “Didn’t you have an owl hanging about?”

She nodded, then began crying. “I had to trade him for a bottle last week.”

He reached out and wiped beneath her eyes with the ball of his thumb. “S’okay, lassie, s’okay.” He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re a good girl. You should stop drinking. Go to one of those meetings I was telling you about.”

“Yeah?”

He climbed out of bed, clothes rumpled and smelling distinctly of smells that one should not be wearing out and about. Even a wand flick wasn’t going to help.

“What do you need an owl for?”

“I’ve got to owl Headmistress McGonnagal. Ask if she’ll let me apparate to Hogwarts Saturday, see Fred.”

“Doesn’t she always? You seem like you've been most of the holiday, I mean summer, haven't you?”

He nodded, flicking his wand around his person without much result. “Term began this week.”

She snuffled and started crying again. “I forgot. Of course it did. I wonder if my kid brother got his letter.”

George turned sharply. “How old are you, sweetheart?”

She answered with another pull on the bottle, emptying it. He sat heavily. “Why aren’t you at home? Are you still school-aged? Please tell me you aren’t school-aged.”

She nodded and shook her head messily.

He stood again, hands on his hips. “Alright. That’s that. I’m a mess, you’re a mess. We’re going to sort ourselves. And you’re going back to Hogwarts.”

 

 

Early Friday morning, Minerva connected the massive fireplace in “The Triumphant Sword” to the considerably smaller and homier fireplace in her office and George and Miss Janey Calamitas, 7th Year HufflePuff, flooed through. The Headmistress brooked no humour as she greeted the Hufflepuff, directing the young witch to a slat-backed wooden chair in front of her desk, but she grasped George firmly by the shoulders and kissed him gently on each cheek. “George, George,” she whispered. “He’s waiting for you. Go. But come to dinner in the Great Hall, won’t you? Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

He nodded. “I will. I won’t. Thank you.” He turned to the girl. “Be good now, Janey. And owl me whenever you like. Study hard like I didn’t.”

His feet were winged, his heart racing ahead of him, through the brightly lit passageways and open air hallways of the castle, searching for its twin.


	3. Chapter 3

_\- What’s it like?  
\- It’s like being dead.  
\- And how would you know what that’s like?  
\- I know.  
\- Why do it then? You’re not dead.  
\- I don’t want to talk about it.  
\- You look like a horntail shat you out.  
\- Super.  
\- You look like you’ve taken the scenic route through the guts of a dragon, like you got lost, stopped for directions, found a room and stayed a while.  
\- I heard you the first time.  
\- You should stop; go to one of those meetings you were telling me about.  
\- Right.  
\- I miss you.  
\- Me, too. Me, too.  
\- You miss me or you miss you?  
\- It’s the same thing, innit?  
\- Yeah._

 

It was a beautiful Sunday. The kind of day that encourages everyone, witch, wizard, muggle to remark “This is why we live in Kensington and Chelsea, Hammersmith and Fulham, Wandsworth, Godric’s Hollow, Southwark, Tower Hamlets, Little Whinging, Hackney, Islington, Camden, Brent, Ealing...”

The cool and drizzly morning had broken wide open as the sun rose, drying the damp dew, heating the air and exploding bright sunshine into the day. Ginny and Harry had set dinner at an outside table that stretched across the cobbled backyard patio; mismatched chairs and benches, mismatched china and crockery, and jars of flowers, creating a welcoming vignette.

Hermione and Ron, Harry and Ginny, were standing in one corner of the yard watching the younger children play. The older children were, of course, at Hogwarts leaving a distinct sound of absence and the melody of laughter was a new one. Their parental ears were adjusting.

The four of them were quietly discussing George.

“Something to ask me?” Hermione was still puzzling it out. “That scares me, you know.”

Ron was nodding and Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “Why, though? Why would that frighten you?”

“Over the years, the things he has asked me about....A few years ago he asked me if I could distill the essence of a ghost so that....it could be moved....” She broke off as George appeared in the back doorway of the cottage.

He waved a hand at them dismissively. “Never mind me. Carry on as though it’s still behind my back.” And he turned quickly and made a mad dash for Lily and Hugo who squealed delighted and a game of tag began.

Ginny sighed, the sound trembling out of her. “Oh, Georgie,” she whispered and Harry slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him for a reassuring hug.

Inside the house, an audible pop sounded and Ginny’s face brightened. “That’ll be mum and dad then!” She walked hurriedly away from the group.

On the lawn, George had given up after a valiant effort and threw himself onto his back. Lily and Hugo were tumbling around him like puppies. He was smiling brightly and laughing loudly; tickling children until finally he pulled his wand out of his jeans pocket, rolled onto his stomach, children on his back and transformed a potted begonia into a hedgehog wearing a tutu. The creature began to do somersaults and the children climbed off George’s back and hunkered down on their haunches to watch and clap.

George slowly climbed to his feet, brushing at his pants and his elbows, whispered something regarding the hedgehog to Hugo who nodded solemnly and then walked over to where the adults were standing.

“George!” Molly exclaimed and rushed him. She folded him to her. Arthur stepped towards them and patted his son on the shoulder.

“How are you, son? How are you?”

George nodded.

“Dinner is ready everyone!” Ginny called from the doorway and in a noisy few minutes people arranged themselves around the table.

Eating and drinking, laughter and light conversation. Table manners deplored and taught. Food refused and food devoured. Finally, plates scraped clean, children excused, the adults pushed themselves back to a comfortable distance, sipping at drinks.

“How’s the shop, Ron?” George asked.

“Well. Alright. But we really need to talk about new product. Can you meet with Angelina and me to do that?”

“When?”

“Like yesterday! Angelina is just a whiz, the mail-order idea took off like a snitch and we could hire twenty free elves and still not fill all the orders.”

George nodded thoughtfully. “Okay then. You set up a meeting, owl me and I’ll be there.”

“We’d really like you to come back to work, though.” Ron’s voice was low, his face turned away.

“When he’s ready, Ronald, when he’s ready.” Molly said and stood to begin clearing plates.

“Mum, I’ll do that. Leave it. Sit,” Ginny said firmly.

“Nonsense. I know these dishes will do themselves, but let’s get them started.”

The three women rose and began carrying crockery into the house.

“I can’t, Ron.” George turned his gaze on his father. “I just can’t do it, Dad.”

Both men nodded.

“I tried. For nearly twenty years, I tried. It’s no good.”

“What do you want to do?” Harry asked.

“I’ve got ideas.”

Ron looked doubtful, casting a sidelong glance at Arthur who briefly closed his eyes. The women had returned and reseated themselves. All eyes were on George.

“We can help if you let us, George.” Molly’s voice was overflowing with concern.

“I know that. You think I don’t know that? I know that. I just...need to work out some details first.”

“I’d say,” said Ron, his words edged with bitterness.

Hermione hushed him.

“You’re right, Ron, I’m a tosser.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your face.” George’s eyes went distant and then lit up. “Ginny! Write this down, quick – the “Written on Your Face Sucker” a lolly charmed to reveal what someone’s really saying by spelling out the words on their forehead....I’ll work on that one.” He turned back to Ron then swept his gaze up and down the table. “I know I’m falling apart. Back that up, I know I feel apart a few years back. You’re not keeping any secrets with that one. But I want to go to Hogwarts. I want to teach charms.”

Hermione gasped loud enough for both children to look over quickly. She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry, George. It’s just...well...I don’t think....”

His eyes were hard and behind him the hedgehog froze mid-somersault and reverted back to its potted begonia self. The pot landed on its side and broke. Rose began to cry and George quickly grabbed his wand from beside his plate and recast the hedgehog charm, the hedgehog looked decidedly put out. He turned back to the table. “You don’t think what?”

“You never actually passed your exams.” Harry’s voice was soft, apologetic.

George stood. “This is how you’re going to help me? You think I don’t know that?”

“George.”

“Fred is there. Are you not getting that? Fred is at Hogwarts. I want to be there. Live in the castle. I’m good at charms. I would be a good teacher. Hermione, you can tutor me so I can sit the exams. If the brightest witch of our generation can't help me pass...then there's no way I could on my own.”

Now Ron was standing. “How can you be a good teacher when your life is a shambles? Hermione is going to tutor you? And then what? You haven’t worked in two years time. George, for Merlin's sake, you're squatting in a shooting gallery off Diagon Alley above a pub.”

Hermione stood quickly, a hand on Ron’s elbow. She cast a quick silencing charm over the table, waving the children back to their play. “That’s enough. Why are you so angry at him? This isn’t doing anyone any good.”

Ginny’s voice cut like a whip. “Stop it! This is my house and if you can’t be civil you need to go. All of you.”

“Ginerva!”

“You, too, Mum. I can’t deal with this right now.” She looked at her brother who had sat heavily back down, staring into his lap. “George, I love you. We all love you. We miss you and we’re worried about you. If you want to teach Charms at Hogwarts then we’re all going to work together to make that happen. But you’ve got to promise us that you’re going to put yourself back in order.”

Arthur cleared his throat and the sound stilled everyone. Those standing sat back down. “Ginny, we appreciate that this is your home and we certainly don’t want any shouting at this lovely meal you’ve prepared. But there are still very hard questions that need to be asked and perhaps sharp points that need to be made.” He turned to George. “You say you want to teach. At Hogwarts.” He shook his head slowly. “Your infamous leaving of that institution is still talked about today.”

Ron interrupted, “Toasted every weekend in every pub this side of Dover is more like it.”

Arthur held up a hand and the laughter quieted. “Be that as it may. The boys left Hogwarts, OWLS were not sat, and although I certainly acknowledge that young boys grow up into wiser men, they displayed a distinct lack of respect for organized education of any kind at that time and I fear that may still be the case.”

George bolted back to his feet. “Not all young boys get to grow into wise wizards, Dad. Fred is at Hogwarts and although that may seem like the ultimate punch line to a very bad joke, it’s the truth. Fred is there. And I am not. You’re right; we blew it all off when we were seventeen, tossed the lot of it into the bin. At least I got to grow up and I don’t know if I’m a single bit wiser but I do know what I want. I want to be where Fred is. I live the life of the dead now, the perpetual stagnation of being a ghost. My life stopped nineteen years ago. And I’m sorry to say that to you, all of you who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts to insure that life keep going on. But it's true. It’s killing me,” he looked around the table, “I mean this literally. It’s killing me to not be with him.

“You mean you’re killing yourself.” Harry’s voice was low.

“I’d be a stupid git if I killed myself anywhere but that castle, wouldn’t I, Potter?”

Hermione’s voice was shaking, “Are you saying you want to go to Hogwarts and kill yourself there?”

Molly began to cry. “Please, George, please no.”

Ginny spoke, her voice soft. “He goes to Hogwarts all the time.”

“And he hasn’t offed himself yet,” said Ron.

“We all go to Hogwarts to see Fred, love. The boys' birthday, around Christmastime.” Molly asked, wiping a napkin under her eyes.

Ginny answered. "No, mum. George goes to Hogwarts all of the time. Alot."

“What’s this?” Arthur asked.

George shrugged, looking down at the table, picking up a butter knife and making an elaborate pattern in his roast gravy. “Yeah. As often as they’ll let me. But when term is in, I can’t go as easily. Weekends sometimes.” His voice cracked and he turned wet eyes on each witch and wizard, his look long and deep. “Fred is there.”

Molly shoved her chair back quickly and rushed around the table to her son. She pulled out the empty chair beside him, and pulling him into her arms, she sat heavily and the tall man went down on his knees beside her, his face buried into her breasts. She began to rock him against her.


	4. Chapter 4

The group parted, as though running water around a mid-stream boulder, circumventing the mother and her child. Hermione stood a long moment, watching the grown man weeping on his mother’s breast and her eyes flicked over to Hugo. Quickly, she went to the children and ushered them both inside the house and set them up in the kitchen with dishtowels and crockery to dry. Ginny worked beside her and impulsively Hermione reached over and held her soapy hand, Ginny squeezed back and they continued working.

The men were seated in the main living area, silent. Finally Arthur asked a question about the latest Ministry kerfuffle and both Harry and Ron rushed to fill the void.

At long last, Molly and George walked slowly into the house. They were arm in arm and talking softly.

“I almost forgot!” George said. “Ginny, I’ve got something for you.”

Ginny dried her hands, looking at her brother’s retreating back.

Over his shoulder he said, “Come on, it’s in here then.”

They all followed.

A brightly wrapped box sat on the coffee table, humming a jaunty tune. George picked it up and turned to his sister. “This is from Fred and me.” He was beaming mischievously.

“When you’ve got a look like that on your face it makes me nervous to open it, George.”

“A look like what? Nothing to be nervous about. Here sit down.” He swept the Sunday papers off a wingbacked chair onto the floor and she sat. “I’ll tell you a bit about it before you open it, okay?”

She nodded, placing the box on her knees.

“I’ve learned a lot about ghosts these past nineteen years. More than most ever do, I would think.” He began speaking to everyone in the room. Harry raised his eyebrows and bent his head towards the children. George nodded in response. “It’s fine. Ghosts live in the past. Their past and they spend a lot of time thinking about things that happened when they were alive, to them, because of them. They’re pretty self-centred that way.” The room laughed nervously. “I know, Fred never dwelt on himself like that, did he? But, he does now. He’s always reminding me of something we did or said and then he just talks about it until he doesn’t need to anymore. Like he’s worked something out for himself, I think. Friday, he wanted to talk about something that happened with you Ginny when you were four years old.”

Ginny nodded and Molly moved beneath Arthur’s arm on the sofa. He squeezed tight, pulling his wife closer.

“I don’t know if you are going to remember this. Mum was reading to you and Ron out of that Fairy Stories for Children. It was a muggle book.”

“I remember the Fairy Stories book!” Molly and Ginny exclaimed together. Ron sheepishly shook his head no.

George continued. “Good. Fred and I were listening too, although we were acting like it was baby stuff. But the story was about this princess,” he interrupted himself, “it doesn’t end well for her, but that’s not the point of my story. The princess traded ten kisses to a swineherd for a magical teapot that could tell you what all the neighbours were having for breakfast if you put your finger in the steam.”

“I remember this,” Ginny whispered.

“You went all kinds of crazy about this teapot. You were just a little girl and you wanted that teapot, you wanted to know what the neighbours were having for breakfast. And Fred and I laughed and laughed at that. Laughed until we made you cry.”

“George,” Molly admonished. “That wasn’t nice at all.”

“Guilty. I don’t think there’s been any lasting damage, but Fred.... Well, open the box. Fred and I worked on it all day yesterday.”

And of course, once the wrapping fell away, an old-fashioned tea kettle sat on Ginny’s lap. “Really?” Her voice was very close to breaking and she cleared her throat. “Oh, George, really is it?”

He nodded, smiling wide. “It really is and it really will. For what good that does. But, Fred insisted and there you are.”

Ginny stood and set the kettle gently down on the coffee table and jumped into her brother’s arms. “Thank you.”

“And Fred.”

“And Fred, of course. Can we try it now?”

“No, breakfast time only.”

 

Early the next morning Ginny crept into the grey dawn of her kitchen. The teapot was on the hob. She filled it from the tap, set it back on the cooktop and lit the gas, watching the flame lick at the bottom of the kettle. She walked back to the sink and looked out of the window, letting her mind clear, breathing deeply through the emotions that were moving through her unbidden but demanding. Beside her, the kettle began to sing softly and she wrapped the wire handle with a dishcloth and moved it onto a trivet on the table. Then she sat down, her heart hammering.

She closed her eyes and ran her fingertip through the steam billowing happily out of the spout.

After several long passes through the steam, she lay her forearms down on the table, lowered her head and sobbed.

A few moments later, Harry walked into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around his wife and leaned down over her, whispering nonsense words into her ear. She raised her head, smiling at him, wiping her face dry with the dishtowel. “It worked.”

“I thought it might have.”

Ginny stood and refilled the kettle, relighting the hob and setting it back down to boil. “I want you to try it. There is one funny thing I didn’t understand.”

“Why someone would eat cold pizza for breakfast?”

Ginny laughed and shook her head.

“Is there any actual tea?” Harry asked, smiling back at his wife.

“In a minute. I want you to try this first.” She carried the singing kettle back to the table. “Here.”

Harry smirked but ran a quick finger through the steam and couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Why is this so funny?”

“I don’t know but it is, isn’t it?”

Suddenly his brows furrowed. “What’s that? It tells you what cats are having for breakfast?”

“That’s what I didn’t understand. Harry, I think that’s Mrs. Riley.”

“Why would Mrs. Riley be eating cat food for breakfast?”

Ginny just looked at him sternly.

“Oh, I see.” Harry nodded. “Yes, Ginny, we will find a way to help out. It’s not okay that an old woman has nothing more than a tin of cat food to eat.”

Ginny hugged him hard.


	5. Chapter 5

In his own rooms, George was on his back, staring at a water stain on the ceiling, closing one eye, then the other, narrowing both, trying to sort the feeling that was welling up inside of him. It was unfamiliar and yet not. He kept trying to corral it into a place where he could really take a good look at it, but it was airy. He thought back over the long weekend, the drug wasted week following Ron’s visit, learning that the drunk witch was actually a Hogwarts student in the same class as his own son, owling McGonnagal, spending two glorious days with Fred, and then the Sunday dinner. He sighed. And found himself smiling at the thought of Ginny using the tea kettle. And suddenly the emotion he was wrangling solidified. It was satisfaction. And he hadn’t felt that in decades.

He curled onto his side, holding the feeling close to him, trying to force it to act as buoy. Going on four days clean and sober and he still felt pretty good, but the prickling need to descend into dark unconsciousness had begun biting at the edges of his mind. Monday mornings were always the worst.

As though called by his desire to remain dry, two owls swept into his room, through the window he had left open the night before. They landed efficiently on the small bedside table.

He recognized the Potter family owl immediately and actually barked a laugh out loud. The owl scowled at him but lifted her leg dutifully and he removed the small bit of parchment tied there.

It works. We love you. Both of you. We’re going to contact the Council about the elderly widow who’s eating cat food for breakfast. G&H

He turned the parchment over, smiling, and grabbed for a quill on the table top.

Leave it to you two do-gooders to find a way to make a bit of fluff change lives. G

He tied it back on and the owl hopped to the window ledge and was gone.

The other owl was large and looked to be incredibly old. George fished a bit of owl tidbit out of the bedside drawer and handed it to him. He took a dignified bite and then raised his leg. It was from Headmistress McGonnagal.

George, Janey Calamatis is suffering in both body and spirit. Nurse Spinnach has informed me that it’s a withdrawal from alcohol. I would have appreciated being told more of these particulars last Friday morning. We are not sure whether it is the right thing to make her comfortable or to have her suffer it a bit. She is asking for you and has requested to attend some sort of meeting for addicts held in Diagon Alley. Please advise. HMM.

His feeling of satisfaction sank below him and he followed it down into the dark waters.

 

That evening, the Potter family was the last to floo into the Weasley patriarch and matriarch’s living room. The rest of the red-headed clan and their spouses and offspring were already in attendance. George was the only absent face. Of the living. Of the dead, Fred’s portrait had been turned towards the wall. Every sitting space was occupied and clever transfiguration charms had created more seats. Ron was seated on a toasted BLT sandwich, Hugo on his lap, Harry was settled comfortably on a divan-sized dustbunny, Lily on his lap.

Arthur and Molly were moving between the kitchen and the living area, distributing mugs of cocoa and a plate of biscuits. Finally Arthur stood still and Molly joined him. Mr. Weasley looked around the room at the burgeoned size of his family and felt something catch in his throat. He cleared it noisily and all voices went silent, all eyes on him.

“I do think the children should go upstairs, they can play in Ginny’s old room.” He looked apologetically at his young grandchildren. “This is going to be a grownups talk but I bet the first one up the stairs will find something fun beneath the bed.” And the race was on.

He turned back to the room. “Thank you, all of you for coming on such short notice.”

Dismissive murmurs rose and Molly smiled. “We remember having young ones at home on a worknight. Thank you. Sincerely.”

Bill spoke, “You said this was about George.”

“And so it is. We saw George yesterday at Ginny and Harry’s house. Ron and Hermione were there, too. He doesn’t look good.”

Hermione interrupted. “But he sounds good. I thought he sounded better than he has in a long time.”

Molly nodded, her eyes brimming. “That’s why we want to talk about this, together, as a family.”

“But without George?” Ron asked.

“Without George.” Arthur nodded. “Apparently, Ronald went to his room above “The Triumphant Sword” and, well...maybe he should tell it.”

“He’s using muggle drugs. He’s drinking. A lot. And he was in a room spelled with Forever Night. It was pretty awful.”

Hermione continued. “He visits Fred as often as Headmistress McGonnagal will allow him at the castle...”

Bill interrupted, “Does he see Freddie and Roxie when he’s there?”

She shrugged and shook her head then continued. “He’s come up with this idea....” her voice trailed off.

“Idea?” Charlie asked into the uncomfortable silence. Fleur and Bill on the sofa beside him leaned forward.

“He wants to teach Charms at Hogwarts,” Molly said this, her voice proud but the tremble in it revealing her nervousness.

Percy ran a quick and unhappy hand through his hair. “That’s madness.”

All heads swiveled in his direction. “Why?” Arthur asked quietly.

“He didn’t sit his 7th year OWLS, he quit the only job he’d ever had two years ago, then that complete and utterly terrifying nervous breakdown – this is all public knowledge.” He wagged a pointed finger at the ceiling. “Now Ron’s saying he’s a druggie and lushington....no surprise there. And George thinks Headmistress McGonnagal will hire him to teach Charms to children?” He laughed, the sound was far from amused.

Audrey was nodding, looking up with a convicted sort of pride at her bustling husband, but the rest of the room looked stricken.

Harry stood. “If you’re not going to support him now, Percy, if you’re not willing to try to help him with this, then you might as well say so and the rest of us will work without you.”

“Now?” Percy looked astonished. “Not support him now? I think he needed supporting when he dragged all of us through that spectacular break-up of his marriage. His own children don’t speak to him.”

Audrey was nodding. “Well, he left the day Fred got his Hogwarts letter...”

“I don’t want to talk about those children right now.” Molly’s voice was shaking.

But Percy continued. “Where have all of you been while he was spiraling into this place? It’s not as if none of us didn't know. Well, Charlie gets a pass because he doesn’t live here, but really? The stories, the rumours, seeing how he actually looks at holidays and Sunday dinners. He griddled a half-galleon off me in front of Gringotts last Winter before either one of us even realized who the other was. He’s wrecked himself good. Why the sudden interest in helping him now?”

“Why didn’t you tell us that story before this?” Ginny was outraged.

“Please. I was embarrassed enough for all of us. He’s a grown wizard and there is no excuse.”

Molly began to cry and Bill rose quickly from the sofa and guided her to his spot where she sat heavily.

Ron was bristling visibly. “You got any opinions about the rest of us you’d like to get off your chest, brother?”

Hermione and Ginny both put a hand on his arm.

Ginny spoke. “I know what you’re saying, Percy, and some of it is true. We’ve all been busy with our families, our lives, our jobs, our children. But he has an excuse and I think none of us have wanted to look directly at it. He touched on it a bit yesterday. It wasn’t just Fred that died in the War....”

Bill held up a hand. “This isn’t doing anyone any good. I agree, he’s a mess and we’ve all been looking away from it.”

Harry stood. “We need to talk about Fred. About Fred’s death. About how that ripped George out of his own life. We’ve all been avoiding that more than we’ve been avoiding talking about George wrecking himself. Have we let George talk about Fred over the years? Not really. Did any of us actually think it was a good idea for George to marry Angelina right after the War?”

All eyes flicked quickly over to Molly and then away.

Fleur whispered. “It seemed like such a good idea, didn’t it?” She looked around the room and no one would meet her eye. Bill smiled at her sadly.

“I think,” Molly’s voice was quiet but firm. “I think, we all thought George was stronger than he is. I think, after that terrible war, all of those senseless and tragic deaths, we didn’t feel we could mourn Fred’s death differently, more than, say Remus or Tonks. I can see my mistakes now. And me, the one who carried those boys, brought them into the world, nursed them at the same time. They would tangle together in my lap like a ball of yarn.” She laughed and the room laughed nervously with her, hands beginning to dry eyes. “They told us, the midwives told us to put those babies to sleep in separate cots, but I knew we could never do that. Oh, not for trying.” She looked up at Arthur who nodded at her. “The first week we put them each in his own wee crib but they howled to raise the dead and your father and I, well, we thought we were old pros at raising babies but those two boys threw all that out the window and we had to relearn everything.” She looked up proudly at Arthur. “It was actually your father who took George out of his cot and lay him down next to Fred and we stood there, both of us exhausted beyond words, watching the two of them settle and sleep.” She laughed. “I’d quite forgotten by that time what sleeping was!”

“We never separated them again.” The twins’ father said.

“I don’t remember them ever being apart, even a single night,” said Charlie.

“And now they’re never together. Not really.” Ginny said this quietly.

Hermione left the room quickly and returned with a box of tissues and passed the box.

Molly was crying openly now, tears wetting her face. "They never really belonged to me, to me and your father, not like the rest of you. They always belonged to each other."

“It’s been nineteen years. Why does it still hurt so much?” Ron asked.

Bill blew his nose loudly and balled the tissue into his hand. “Are we saying that this is how George feels all the time?”

“Except when he’s at Hogwarts. With Fred.” Molly nodded, wiping at her tears.

“We’ve got to help him.” Percy announced this, his voice now soft and forgiving. He looked at each Weasley and was answered with a firm nod.

“We’re going to help him, then,” said the room in unison.


	6. Chapter 6

McGonagall lifted the tea kettle towards George’s cup and he nodded; he was distracted because Albus Dumbledore’s portrait had been frowning at him for the entirety of his visit with the Headmistress. He wasn’t sure why he had earned the disapproving look and had finally decided he was not going to ask. He turned his eyes away. “Thanks,” he mumbled and doctored the tea with lumps of sugar and milk. He drank it down to the dregs in one gulp and peered into the bottom of the china cup, swirling the leaves.

“You shouldn’t bolt your tea, George.” The Headmistress sounded motherly and George smiled, cocking his head for an answer. “Indigestion,” she said simply.

He laughed. “Something I tend to be plagued with regardless, but I might take your advice. In future.” He set the cup down with the portending sediment. “So, without stepping inside confidentiality boundaries, Janey’s parents want nothing to do with her or her addiction, help her with her alcoholism?”

McGonagall peered at him over the tops of her spectacles and George almost felt twelve years old again. “I fear that acorn has not fallen too far from the tree.” She shook her head. “I would rather talk to you about these meetings she has mentioned. Are they the type of thing a girl her age attends?”

He single shoulder shrugged, considering. They both shook their heads in the negative and he agreed. “Probably not.”

“We can administer,” she paused, “a kind of tonic that will help her through this. She would be much improved in just two days time. And in a small bit of research, we’ve also discovered a potion that will make her significantly ill if she were to consume alcohol again.”

“Gor, that sounds extreme.”

She nodded. “I feel, after consideration, it is behaviour that calls for an extreme response. We would, of course, need her permission as she is of age. The fewer future conversations I must have with her parents the better.” She hesitated, doctoring her own cup of tea, stirring rhythmically, the spoon tapping against the bone china once each rotation. “George, what is or was your relationship with the girl?”

He began to answer when her meaning caught him fully. “Pardon me? Are you suggesting....”

She stopped stirring and looked him fully in the face. “I apologize if it feels insulting, but I must know. She has proclaimed all manner of attachment to you.”

“She’s the same age as my own children.”

She set the spoon down beside the cup. “And I want to talk you to about them as well. If I may?”

He lowered his head, watching her avoid his eyes from beneath his long red lashes. “You can talk to Angelina about them. Please. Or Fred.” He paused, taking an audible deep breath. “My relationship with Janey was troubled in some ways because she knew I didn’t approve of her drinking and yet she watched me struggle with my own,” he hesitated, swallowing the truth and choking on it, “my own demons. She appeared in Diagon Alley last Spring and had become a bit of a regular at the pub I frequent. I had no idea she was a runaway or, please believe me on this score, a Hogwarts student. She seemed somewhat older than that.”

McGonagall raised a doubting eyebrow and he capitulated. “Not much older. But older.”

“I see. I think it would be best if you kept your communication with her limited to owlpost only, and George, please exercise good sense there. I will move forward with treatment here, I don’t anticipate her setting herself against it, but if she does and I feel you can help in that regards, I will owl you straight away for assistance.”

He leaned forward in his chair, towards the edge of the desk that separated them. “I know students are in the halls...but d’you think?” His voice softened.

“Oh, George.” She nodded, her eyes sad and he refused to hold that glance.

He was up and out of the chair, down the stairs and on his way to the Hall. As he traversed moving staircases to the ground floor of the castle he found himself in and amongst the student body. He and Fred had always been tall, but he could not help but marvel at how small children were. First years were nearly babies and he wondered briefly if he might see any of his nieces or nephews. He chewed on his lower lip, his pockets were empty of wheezes. He shoved his hands deep in each front pocket and walked faster, his head down now. The dusty smell of Summer ending, unswept corners of the castle, and wool robes had him remembering moments gone forever. A kind of hopeless longing swept through him and he had to stop, steady himself with a hand on the cold wall, and turn his face away from a group of third year girls who hesitated with concern. He continued. Stairstep after stairstep, breathing hard and wondering how he had gotten so out of shape.

As he came to his last twisting corner he heard Fred’s voice and he slowed. Fred's ghost was talking with someone or several someones from the sound. He stopped and leaned against the corner of the long hallway, glancing around into the intersecting hall with a cautious movement. The ghost was standing before one of the inset stone benches, gesticulating wildly with his hands, his voice continuing to bray and carry around the corner. Seated on the bench were two students, a boy and a girl. The boy was leaning back on his hands his long legs kicked out in front of him, and from beneath his robes, George could see the crazy mishmash of colours on a pair of muggle high-top sneakers on his feet, laces unbound. The girl had her long legs crossed, kicking at the hem of her robes in time to her own private rhythm as she listened to her uncle. Both had dark red and deep ebony coloured dreadlocks falling over their shoulders, hers tied up in a knot, his swinging free. Their faces were his and his brother’s face, their colouring their mother's.

He turned away; shoulders pressed against the wall and felt his heart’s accusation beating at him like a rogue bludger.

Another sound assailed him and he slid down to a crouch; the laughter of his children. He lowered his head to his knees and listened hard. He pushed himself back to a standing position and turned, walking fast, blind purpose propelling him away. He could apparate outside the gates and they would be open until twilight.

“Pure then! George?”

The low slung Scottish burr stopped him at once. He looked up and Oliver Wood was moving towards him, slowing and stopping.

George was speechless.

Oliver stretched out his hand and George realized he was wearing robes. “It is ye, George?”

George grasped his hand and pulled the other man to him. He pressed a quick arm around Oliver’s back and hugged him quickly. “Wood. Yes, it’s me. Sorry. You nearly surprised the life out of me.”

“Ye looked a bit like ye’d seen a ghost." He blushed. "Or mebbe it was jes me used to seein' a ghost that looks like ye."

The two men stepped away from one another and George realized his hands were shaking. He shoved them into his armpits and breathed out quickly.

“You teach here?”

Oliver nodded and shook his head, one hand motioning to the robes he was wearing. “Aye, nay. I mean, I do. I’m the Physical Education and Games teacher.” He winked. “So that I can coach the Quidditch, ye know.”

“Yeah?” He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be on a broom high above the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, Wood yelling at him to dodge right, no left! Glancing over and knowing without needing to look that Fred would already be left but wanting to see a 17 year old Fred in red and gold and that cocky smile. And he also wanted nothing more than to be sitting in his cold water walk-up smoking his memories until they were insubstantial wisps...

“What are ye doin’ here? I hope nothing has happened with your two.”

George shook his head. “No, no, not at all. I was looking for Fred, actually. And now I’m on my way home. Uh, yeah. I’ve got to run.”

“Yeah? Hey, you want to catch up a bit? You could come to dinner in the Great Hall?”

“No!”

Oliver frowned. “Nae problem.” He tilted his head and peered closer. “Ye okay?”

George nodded. And then shook his head. “Not really, Wood. You seem to be, though, and that’s great. I’ve got to go.”

Oliver reached out and held his upper arm. “Let me buy you a whisky down the pub. How bout that then? I’ve got to get rid of these robes....”

“Yeah. That’s good. I’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks.” He brushed past him and far down the hall chanced a look over his shoulder and Oliver was standing where he’d left him, watching him walk away.


	7. Chapter 7

He finished the last of his third fire whisky and finally began to feel the effects of the alcohol wash like warm water over the frozen parts of him. He pressed the tips of his long fingers against his eyelids and breathed out heavily. He wanted another glass of the amber amnesiac. He wanted to thaw until his memories rivuleted away from him, insubstantial.

He settled back in his chair. Oliver was looking at him under slightly lowered brows. It was a look he recognized, the light of it casting him in shame and he answered it sullenly. But Wood only leaned back in his own chair, rocking it up onto its hind legs and raised a hand to the barkeep, two fingers up.

As though it were magic, a fourth tumbler was set down in front of him. He corralled it with his palms and hoped to Merlin he didn’t look as grateful as he felt. Sodding tosser. He could feel his demons settling in, waiting for the early morning hours to come, honing their pitchforks, hiding amongst the detritus of his memories, prodding at his longings. He sighed.

“George?”

“S’okay, Wood. Thanks for the drink. Plural This’ll have to be my last.” He wanted to be gone, to be in his rooms. At least the company of his own was familiar; something about sitting in the Three Broomsticks outside of Hogwarts with Oliver Wood had begun unsettling him. George flexed his broad shoulders back. “Talking about myself like this is putting me to sleep. How about you? You never married?”

Wood barked out a laugh and then quieted. “Nay.”

He felt as though he had missed a subtext in the conversation. “Yeah?”

"Not for me." Oliver shook his head and sipped at his own fresh drink. “Never really wanted to grow up, ye know? Playing for a team like United helped with that. Twenty years, aye?”

“It looks like it suited you.” George had noticed, once Wood was in street clothes, that he had maintained a rigorously strong physique. He refused to dwell on the fact of his own thinness, his loss of stamina.

“I think so, aye." Wood was nodding, patting at the taut firmness of his stomach, the lines of it outlined beneath the thin fabric of a well-worn t-shirt. "Didn’t know what exactly I was gonna do when they offered to retire me. Couple bad moments in there, thinkin’ bout it, but then I got the owl from McGonagall and I can tell you I tied one on for a week. I was so happy and relieved like.”

George could not restrain the laugh that burst out of him. “Wood!”

“Tis nuthin’ more than the truth, friend. I got good and doused and stayed that way until none of the pubs in Puddlemere would serve me anymore. So I dried out and reported for duty at Hogwarts.” He gave a half-hearted salute and tossed the rest of his drink back. “An’ here I am.” He looked around the empty pub. “It’s as boring as tits.”

George was still laughing. “Frankly, I can’t really remember how boring tits can be.”

Wood nodded. “Take me word on it. Tits and teaching. Dull.”

“I think I’d like to try my hand at it.”

Wood looked at him, an eyebrow raised. A smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“Teaching,” George said. “I’m done with the rest of that. But I think I’d like to teach.”

Oliver’s face settled into a serious expression. “Right?”

George nodded slowly. “It’s a bit crazy, I know.” He held up his hand. “I didn’t sit my 7th year OWLS. I haven’t worked for a while.” He shrugged. “I just think I’d be good, you know.”

“Here? At Hogwarts?”

George tried desperately to school his face, narrowing his eyes.

“You were always good at Charms.”

He felt the edges of his mouth twitch and he closed his eyes briefly, smiling too broadly, biting on the inside of his cheek. “I thought so. Yeah.” Gratitude welled inside him, a small internal bleeding.

“Talk to McGonagall.”

“Thinking about it.” He felt the familiar weight of expectation on him. It was uncomfortable. "Especially if you can get by with a wicked beard like that, I want in."

Wood reached up and smoothed the hairs of his goatee over the edge of his lip, finger and thumb framing the squared jaw line. He laughed. "You like it?"

The barkeep interrupted them from the door.

“We closed it down, Weasley.” Wood slammed his chair legs back onto the floor, standing, laughing easily and reaching down for George’s arm, helping him to his feet.

They walked to the door, and outside George realized Wood’s hand was still fast around his wrist. The male touch of it like an echo and he gently shook free.

“Thanks, O. For the drinks. The conversation.”

“My pleasure. How ‘bout we make it a regular? Friday nights good for ye?”

George hesitated. The lamplight illuminating Oliver’s face, the direct look of his gaze brighter than the flame.

“Or not.” Wood said, the words a question.

“No, that’s good. That’s fine. Thanks. Friday night is, yeah, here?” George was stammering.

Oliver nodded. "Beats drinking alone, s’all.”

He held his hand out and George shook it. “I should sleep solid tonight,” Oliver said, releasing his hand and looking far up the street. He turned his gaze back, his eyes dark now. “Long time, George,” suddenly somber, nodding. “It marches on, don’t it?

“Until it stands still,” George answered and felt a flaring of emotion inside his heart. Impulsively, he stepped in closer and pulled Wood into an embrace, then he stepped back, one long stride away, and disapparated.

 

In his rooms, he sat heavily on the edge of the unmade bed. He was out of smoke, but he knew that a half-drank bottle of brandywine was shoved into one of his boots in the far corner. He stood again, reluctant, moving towards the bottle, pulling the cork and tossing it angrily into another dark corner. He walked to the window and looked out over the darkened street, shadows flickering beneath dimly lit lamps, and upended the bottle to his lips. The bitter tang of the wine so different from the peaty bite of the whiskys he had drank with Wood. He grimaced and sucked the bottle dry. Lowering himself back into the broken coiled arms of the mattress he lay spread-eagled and closed his eyes, waiting for the bed to spin faster inside his mind, the feeling of falling backwards towards an unknown ground overwhelming him.


	8. Chapter 8

A slight twisting behind his left eye woke him and he opened his right eye first. He took a quick physical assessment and found he was in the clear, minus the slight headachey twinge. The half bottle of wine after a handful of fire whiskys was going to prove harmless as far as morning regrets went. He locked his fingers behind his head and kicked an ankle up onto his knee, wishing he had actually undressed before sliding into sleep.

He began corralling his thoughts into one section of his mind and his feelings into another. Two decades of this active visualization had made the job a quick morning constitutional. He worked diligently when sober to keep his emotions from having free range, penning them, containing them; kept them from running rough-shod over his thoughts, taking over in a mutinous display of grief and rage and self-destruction. It was the only coping mechanism he had learned from the ill-advised time he had spent with the War Survivors group in the year after the Battle of Hogwarts. Of course, not having to wrangle an eye-rolling hangover of one influence or another helped tremendously.

He couldn’t help but notice that his usual pack of wild and unkempt emotions was a bit subdued and his thoughts a bit more alert. It was mid-week and for the first time in as long a time as he could remember he actually was anticipating something, but he couldn’t quite sort what that something was. He continued the mental work of tamping down his feelings and taking a good long look at his thoughts. And when the image of Oliver Wood surfaced in his mind, his promise for Friday night fell from his lips and with a strange unfamiliar clenching of his heart he recognized his anticipation.

He quieted his body, breathing deeply, letting the new feeling flow through him, settling himself into a place where he could see far enough ahead that one step after another was the clear response to so much looming horizon. He suddenly stood up, stretched his long body to its limits, hands over his head, up on his toes, feeling the pull of the muscles in his thighs, his back, his neck, his arms as he reached high. He couldn’t say what he was reaching for but his fingertips tingled.

 

A knock on the door and then his name. He called out and Ron walked into the room. For a moment George allowed himself to enjoy the look of surprised shock and pleasure on his brother’s face before he let the feelings of irritation push forward.

“Please,” he said simply, dismissively, a sharp hand movement.

“No way, brother. I’m going to enjoy seeing this room look like this and seeing you like that. Did you get a haircut?”

“No, I spelled it to grow backwards.”

Ron grinned widely and with a giant step forward pulled George into his arms. He held him tightly and George relented and answered with his own fierce embrace.

“You want to set up a business meeting?”

“Mmmm,” George cast his glance at the open window. “I’ll have to check with my secretary.”

Ron’s face returned to his trademark confused scowl. He nodded. “You will let me know when you’re ready, right then?”

A heavy quiet, the two men, grown brothers standing feet apart, history flowing between them as hot as blood still spilling from a vein.

“Yeah. I will. I’m going to work on that “written all over your face” idea. Bring it to the table, you know.”

“Fred help with that sort of thing?” Ron’s voice was quiet.

“Not really. Not anymore.” He sat on the only chair, elbow on his desk. “Fred’s working on his own thing. Working it all out. It’s hard to explain.” He picked up a quill and twisted it between his fingers, tapping it lightly on the battered desktop.

Ron stood, hands in his trouser pockets, the air charging with something unsaid. He waited.

“I saw the kids yesterday.” The quill tip was pressed hard into a deep scratch, the length of it flexing without mercy. “My kids.”

Ron held his breath, but the silence stretched out to an unbearable distance and he breathed out heavily. “Long time?”

The quill split and snapped and lay in shattered shards. George stood and moved to the window. “Keep hearing that a lot. Time doesn’t just stop because you happen to step off the round-a-bout.” He turned back to Ron. “And I don’t know how to explain to you lot that those of us standing beside the carousel are the ones who understand this the most. We can see it. See time moving.”

Ron held up both hands but refused to back away from the anger and the accusation. “You saw Freddie and Roxie?” His voice was smooth and soft, a redirecting current. “Did you,” he hesitated, “talk with them?”

“I didn't.”

Ron dug through possible next sentences like a hand in a loaded game of cards. “But you wanted to?”

No reply.

“You were at Hogwarts then?”

George closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the top window pane.

“What were you doing out there?”

“It’s a complicated bit of story that really isn’t mine to tell. Nothing to do with the kids or Fred. But I wanted to see him, you know, and they were with him.” He looked over at Ron, his eyes wet and shining. “Big now.”

“7th years,” Ron agreed, trying a smile but feeling that it was a grimace and he wiped it.

“It’s a dog’s dinner.”

Ron ran a quick hand over the nape of his neck, pulling his head forward. He felt as though he were standing on a crack opened by an earthquake, straddling it. “Yeah. Maybe you could clean it up.”

George laughed the sound mirthless. He knocked his forehead against the glass, tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.

“Can’t you fix it, George?” He walked over to his brother and put a hand on his shoulder. “Fix it, George.”

His hand was shrugged off and George turned. “Guess who I saw out there, too? You won’t guess it.”

“Then I won’t try. Who?”

“Wood.”

Ron nodded. “New PE&Games. Also coaching Quidditch, which is probably why he took the job.”

George looked at him, surprised. “That’s what he said.”

“He just started. You talked to him, eh?”

He didn’t answer.

“Look, George. If you want to talk about Freddie and Roxie, I’m here. Mum’s here for you, too. She’d want that, you know. You can talk to any one of us. Well, maybe not Percy so much...”

George looked over at him and they both laughed out loud. He slung an arm around Ron and walked him to the door. “I know. Ron, I know.”

Ron stepped out into the hallway. “Let me know about that meeting.”

Nodding, lips twisted into something sardonic. “Mum and Dad still have our Hogwarts things boxed up in the attic? D'ye know?”

“I thought we all cleared our stuff out of there. But yeah, your boxes are probably there if you never did.”

“Mum’s home now?”

An exasperated look crossed Ron’s face. “How would I know that? I’m sure she is. I guess. I don’t know. You going home?”

Another mirthless laugh. "I promise, I’ll be in touch.” Ron turned but George called him to a stop. “And Ron. Thanks.”


	9. Chapter 9

He floo-ed into the main living quarters of The Burrow.

“Mum?” he called out softly and she answered him from the kitchen.

“Elevenses,” she said when he entered, her back to him, lifting the kettle off the hob. She filled the pot on the table, set the kettle back down and wiped her hands on her apron before moving towards him, her arms open and her smile warm.

He hugged her, bending low. “Are you shrinking, Mum?”

She laughed but didn’t answer and they both sat at the table.

The weather, politics, changing seasons, upcoming hols, and finally George rolled his eyes. “It’s okay, you know. I’m not spun glass. We can talk about things that actually matter.” She was wounded and he felt a small prick of answering pain. “I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean that against you.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes with the cloth napkin beside her plate. “I don’t know what to say, Georgie. Not sure why you’re here. You said something about the Hogwarts trunks…and well, you know it’s a rare thing for you to come for tea.”

Contrite. “I know. I’ve been scarce. For too long. I think for far too long.” He reached out, long fingers tracing a pattern into the tablecloth, around the yellow daisies chained into the taupe-coloured linen. “I’m ready to come back.”

Molly put her hand over his busy fingers. “I’m so very happy, George, to hear that. So very, very happy. Your father will be too, of course. Maybe someday you’ll tell us where you’re coming back from, but right now I just want to welcome you home.”

He smiled, still looking down, but turned his hand over and grasped her fingers in his own. “No more crying now. I’ve got to be done with that, right?” He looked up at his mother, nodding and she nodded back.

She rubbed two quick fists under her eyes and finished her cup of tea. “Now, your trunks are in the attic and no one’s touched them. All the rest have cleared theirs out. Doesn’t mean the attic is any less of a complete shambles.” She giggled then trailed off, catching his gaze. “Why are you asking about them now, George? Twenty years since you and Fred stowed them away there and I’m sure you haven’t thought of them once in all that time.”

“That’s true. I haven’t. But I need….” He stood quickly, wiping his mouth with his napkin and folding it into a rectangle before dropping it onto his plate.

His mother reached out for his hand. “You need what, darling? Tell me what you need.”

He held her hand and looked across the room, out the window over the sink, into the far-reaching yellow fields that stretched around the Burrow. “I need to remember.”

She nodded, wiping her own mouth, then her eyes again. He could see that she had no idea what he was talking about, what he wanted to remember. What he needed to remember.

“Do you want me to go up with you, George?”

He shook his head, his eyes gentle. Then he moved to stand beside her chair and began rubbing her thick shoulders, her neck. He leaned over and hugged her. “I won’t be up there long. I don’t think anyway. Want me to trounce you good at a hand of Cat & Mouse before I go up?”

She nodded and together they cleared the table and sat back down with the cards. A half hour of laughter and teasing and rogue hands and lightning fast discards until George charmed the deck into a handful of mice that scampered off the table top moving quickly towards a hole in the baseboard by the door. But just as quickly George snapped his wand at them and they flattened back into playing cards, falling to the floor.

 

George climbed the final narrow, winding, rickety staircase to the attic, dust-moted light filtering through windows dark with aged grime and cobwebs. He stood at the top of the stairs and let his eyes adjust, looking around at old pieces of furniture that had not moved since long before he and Fred had been born and could very well remain staggered in its jumbled uselessness long after he was dead. There were wardrobes and chifforobes, davenports and gateleg tables. He suddenly was hit with a body memory of clambering over a precariously leaning cabinet in order to leap down behind it and hide alongside Fred from Percy and Bill and Charlie on a rainy afternoon. He winced. The feel of Fred’s narrow boy shoulder wedged into his chest, the tight breath-holding as they looked at each other with wide eyes trying to keep from tell-tale giggling, the complaining length of hamstring, squatting thigh-to-thigh in the gloomy dark, knowing that at any moment Fred would reach over and pinch the nerves in his knee and he would collapse helplessly, legs shaking. The clean smell of his twin brother’s unruly shock of hair and the unwashed smell of his ears. He knew that if he closed his eyes he would be trapped in the memory until the flesh wasted off his bones.

He turned away and peered into a corner and there were the two matching trunks.

Slowly he approached them, a bit wary now of the unbidden memories. But he had come for that very reason, to remember, to coax out the slumbering beast of memory and see if it devoured him or let him stroke it into gentleness. He squatted down in front of one the twin trunks, both pressed together back to back. He knew immediately which one was his and which one was Fred’s and had no clear idea of how he recognized the difference, but he did. He reached out for the clasp and sat back heavily, his arse on the floor, as the padlock zapped him with a spit of electric fire.

He laughed. Of course. But had he really become unrecognizable to his own spell? He supposed after twenty years, he had. And in a way, this was exactly what he had come for, to find out whom he had been then and who he was now. He crossed his legs, guru-style, and pondered the hasp, tongue on his upper lip, eyebrow raised. He muttered a long-forgotten string of words and reached out again only to have the fire leap into the tip of his fingers and numb his hand. He could not stop himself from bursting out in a brief laughter. Why would he have spelled the lock? Another answer to his being there – could he remember the complicated simplicity of being seventeen years old?

He sat in front of the trunk while the sun climbed up the sky, hung at full noon, and then began its steady descent. It was early evening and George had both hands palm-flattened on the floor, head forward and eyes closed. The lock was forever fastened, the trunk closed to him. And he had tried Fred’s as well, with the same results, although Fred’s shock was more pleasure than pain and even that was a mystery. He had tried to clear his mind and summon the memories he’d come in search of, but something was keeping them from surfacing. He could not say whether that something was prohibitive or protective, but regardless, his Hogwarts years had become a Muggle photo album of faded still snapshots curling at their corners and not the magical moving memories he had wanted to study.

He stood, a bit unsteady on his feet after so many hours seated, and stretched tall. He nodded to himself and found that there was no frustration, no grief at this discovery. Somewhere locked inside the trunks, he and Fred had buried the experiences of their teenaged lives. His memories, their memories, were stored but unwittingly unobtainable. They were safe there, and, he decided, without Fred to help him remember how to retrieve them, they were where they belonged.

He pulled the attic door shut behind him, made his way back down to the kitchen where his father was now and he accepted his parents’ invitation to a light supper.

 

Later, lying on his bed, sober and tired, he fell into a dream in which he was a Muggle. In the dream he was holding a red and gold coloured scrum cap, walking through a very old graveyard. He was looking for a headstone, reading inscriptions on marbles as he wandered amongst the graves, not recognizing any of the names or dates. But suddenly, he was standing in the place he’d been looking for and he knelt down, the cold earth damp on his trousers, and he laid the cap in front of the stone and wept. And in the dream, the stone bore both Fred’s name and his own.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lost In Service – Survivors and their Grief**

The sign was simple. Black block lettering on a white card background. Hung on a closed door like an afterthought.

George was standing in the hallway outside, fingertips pressed into his closed eyelids, long fingers tented over his face, rocking back on his heels. With everything in his body he did not want to be standing in that place. Wished he could unread the sign. Considered obliviating himself. Was that even possible? Fred would have known or would have attempted it and found out. And why in the name of all pigeon hawks was he thinking about Fred now. He laughed softly, sadly, because he always thought of Fred, that’s why. And if one followed the truth in that then one could quite possibly drown in the sea of tears wept by the survivors of those lost in service. Suddenly, he wanted a drink. He needed a drink. Obliviate in a bottle. And if that didn’t work he’d find the muggle smoke and forget for weeks.

It was Thursday evening. He had agreed to this during a better part of the day. The sun out, birds singing somewhere, and he distracted by how damned well his week had been going. When Ron’s owl had delivered the message about the meeting it had all seemed so innocuous and the message had really made it sound as though this meeting was for Ron and Ginny and he was going to support them. But now that he was standing alone outside the door, voices on the other side, the bitter smell of urned coffee, he could feel, he could actually feel the dangerous and sharp fact of the place open him from stem to stern, revealing the bloody viscera of his emotions quivering. He opened his eyes and leaned back against the wall. Maybe he could just leave. Slip out quiet-like, apparate to Diagon Alley and begin his own self-guided pub crawl. Let Ron and Ginny bleed out their grief in this horrible place, he’d keep his inside his skin, thank you very much. He pushed off the wall and began walking, directionless, but away from the door, the sign.

The voices of his brother and sister echoed from down the hall, around the corner. He stopped and shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. Two years back and he would have kept moving, turning his face away from them, shouldering out the door and into the endless night.

Regardless of his decision to stay, this was going to prove a colossally bad idea.

The chairs were cold and uncomfortable, the room stale with its limited use, smelling of dust and tears. He sat bookended by his little brother and baby sister. His hands were locked in his lap to keep them from flying into fists, he was looking down, his right knee next to Ron’s left knee, his left knee beside Ginny’s right knee. He was considering them. Grown now, with children of their own, they were tied to the family of their childhoods only by swollen knots of memory and loyalty instead of physical necessity. But he had that backwards. He had abandoned the family he had begun to create with Angelina, left them through a massive hole in the structure and walked until his feet gave out.

He had chosen Fred. Refused to pull himself out of the quicksand of the first twenty years of their lives. Those years weren’t stored like memories inside of him, as they were for the others, those years were the skin he lived in, the clothes he wore, the face and figure reflected in the glass. His was not the existence of the survivor; his was the life of the lost.

They were introducing themselves. Speaking briefly, as though each was the sum of name and occupation and the terrible loss of a beloved gone now two decades. Beside him, Ginny’s soft voice repeated the structure of it, the cadence, and he laughed. The room quieted at once and all eyes swiveled between his face and the facilitator.

“It’s normal to be a little nervous in a setting like this one. We haven’t seen you here before.” She looked at him kindly but he knew if she had a wand in her hand she’d be tapping it into her palm.

“Champion.” He nodded. “But you know who I am.”

She blanched then blushed. “Yes, that’s true, Mr. Weasley.”

“No need for these barmy introductions. We all know one another, maybe not to have over for a game of Exploding Snap, but we know each other.” He stretched himself in the chair, long legs moving forward into the circle, ankles crossing. “We know who each of us mourns.”

She looked at him, mouth opening and closing slightly. Ron jabbed him hard in the side with his elbow.

She cleared her throat. “That may be. And I’m sure you’re correct. But this is the way group begins and I would appreciate you staying on task.” She looked around the room, smiling reassuringly, then back at him. “Mr. Weasley. It’s your turn.”

He kept his gaze leveled on her. He didn’t like her. “Pass.”

Ron began to speak but the facilitator held up a quick hand. “Please, Mr. Weasley, that Mr. Weasley.” She indicated George with her palm. “In a group of this nature we deal with very sensitive subject matter and it requires a kind of trust.”

“I earn trust by trotting out a string of basic facts you already know about me? It’s the things you don’t know that should have your guard up.”

She stood, smoothing at her skirt, still smiling but the corners of her mouth were twitching. “May I speak with you out in the hallway perhaps?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

Across the room, a stocky man with a shock of black hair spoke. “It’s alright. ‘Course we know him. And he’s on, eh? None of us is strangers and the like.”

She sat, defeated, and the introductions finished. Ron was whispering violently beside him but he was deaf to it, the clamour inside of him loud and beginning to swell uncontrollably.

The facilitator had stood and was now standing beside an old-fashioned chalking board that lined the wall like a primary school classroom. She had her wand out.

“In this group, we are working with the five stages of grief.” She tapped the board, murmured, and a loopy feminine cursive began to enumerate a list in large white lettering.

 _1\. Denial and Isolation._

After each number, she tapped her wand and spoke to the room. “At first, we tend to deny the loss has taken place, and may withdraw from our usual social contacts. This stage may last a few moments, a few months, or longer.”

 _2\. Anger._

Tap. “The grieving person may find they are furious at the person who inflicted the hurt even if that person is dead. Or they may find they are angry at the world for letting it happen. The grieving person may be angry with himself for letting the event take place, even if, realistically, nothing could have stopped it.”

 _3\. Bargaining._

“Now the grieving person may make bargains with the universe asking, "If I do this, will you take away the loss?"”

 _4\. Depression._

“The person feels numb, although anger and sadness may remain underneath.”

 _5\. Acceptance._

“This is when the anger, sadness and mourning have tapered off. The person simply accepts the reality of the loss.”

She turned away from the board, walking back to the circle of chairs and sitting down, crossing her legs comfortably. Behind her head, the five stages of grief glowed with a white illumination against the black background.

George forced himself to read the words over and over, silently singsonging them inside his head until they jumbled into a nonsensical chorus. He spoke. “Are you telling me that you lot have been staring at this waffle once a week for the past nineteen years?”

She was on her feet instantly. “Mr. Weasley, that is enough. More than enough. I’m going to ask you to leave.”

He stood. “When are you going to ask exactly?” He stepped out of the circle and walked over to the blackboard. His own wand drawn now, his mind filled with molten fire, his guts churning. “This? This is what the group works out every Thursday evening here…” He looked around the room. “What in the name of all that’s magical is this place exactly other than what it is - a damp and dismal Left Luggage for emotions you don’t want to lug around the rest of the week. No one gets healed in a place like this.” He looked down at the wand in his hands, it was Fred's wand but no one knew that. Their wands were interchangeable. Always had been, still were, in a way. Ghosts couldn't use wands. His mind was wandering, he smirked at the pun of it and then looked back up into the heavy silence of the room. "You don't ever get healed."

The circle of faces looking at him were filled with every variety of emotion he could put a name to, he looked from one familiar face, one familiar emotion, to the next and the next and the next until he came to the furious face of the facilitator.

“I am truly sorry, luv. But I look at you and I have to ask myself if you’ve ever lost anything. A galleon? Your pride? Your virginity? Nothing like the first seven degree relatives.”

Her mouth had fallen open and her eyes had narrowed nearly shut.

“I thought so. Father, Mother, son, daughter, brother, sister, spouse. You haven’t lost anything quite like that.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. Not really. You will. Eventually. That’s how it works, you know. And this,” he tapped the board and the letters turned red and ran like blood off the surface and pooled ugly on the floor, “this is the daily experience of those who have already been crushed by the cogs and gears of life. Every moment of every day of each month and all these years….I,” he mocked her now, “work with the five stages of grief.” His voice became softer, apologetic. “Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. It sounds a bit like a maths problem there, doesn’t it? Add this, subtract that, multiply these and divide and you’ve got it. Or a recipe, measure that, mix this, blend together and bake until the knife comes out clean. It’s not like that. It never ever gets better. Time does not heal all wounds. The equation is always more complex than the answer. The knife is stained with blood. And if we forget then we kill something to do it. Only the insane fight acceptance but it traps claustrophobically.”

He breathed out hard and looked around the room. Survivors were sitting like stone, faces slack with listening; a few had un-wiped tears on their cheeks. George knew they were listening hard and he wondered how often they had heard what he had to say.

“I don’t just mourn Fred, you know. I grieve for all of them that were killed in the Second War. I drink myself to sickness thinking of each one of us left to carry on. We’re really the soldiers in it, aren’t we? Not the dead. They’re gone, we’re here, and we’re marching forward. Well, some of us. I opted out of that soft parade. But if this,” he indicated the room, “gives you comfort then don’t turn away from it. Merlin knows you’ve got to take what comfort you can in the arms of whoever or whatever holds you. I do. Goodnight.”

He turned and tucked his wand into his front pocket and left by the door he’d come in. The hallway stretched long and cold and silent in both directions. Outside the night was cool, winter promising its secret sleep all along the edges of the world. He let his feet carry him, he wanted to walk himself to exhaustion. He was not going to smoke his brains to ash. Not tonight. Tomorrow was Friday and he was going to Hogsmeade to sit a few hours with Oliver Wood.


	11. Chapter 11

Lying in bed was right out, he thought the next morning lying in bed. For the first time in as long as he could remember he actually wanted to get up, start the day, tuck in to a hearty breakfast and do something. Productive. Surprisingly, he wasn’t tired in spite of walking until after two in the morning before finally setting his feet homeward bound and crashing hard.

He hadn’t walked himself to sleep since the early days of Fred’s death. He shuddered just remembering those years. He had been newly married to Angelina then and the marital bed had been far from the comfort he’d been promised it would be, had believed it would be, when he agreed to the preposterous idea of marrying Fred’s on-again off-again girl. He didn’t want to think of Angelina, didn’t want to think of their soiled bed. He rolled over onto his back and thought instead of how, when he wasn't walking the treads off his boots, he was standing very very still in the freezing drench of anguish those years, how he had just not been able to breathe out of his nose for days at a time after each repeated breakdown. He became used to being permanently stuffed up with tears.

For some reason he flashed on a Christmas dinner, two years after Fred was killed and how he suddenly got up from the Weasley commotion, walked outside and sat on the frozen snowy ground, furiously waving off anyone who dare approach him, crying until the early evening darkened the day and then he walked inside up to the old room he had shared with his brother and curled into the sheets and wept himself into a nightmare from which he could not wake for what felt like hours but was only minutes. Finally he allowed his mother to come into the room, lay down beside him on the narrow bed, and she held him and he slept. He begged Charlie to take him abroad, begged his father to let him stay, begged Ginny to send Angelina home without him. All to no avail. That was the day she had announced she was carrying the child she would name after his father’s identical twin brother.

He stood quickly. Enough of that. He dressed, washed his teeth and face in the basin in the room and readied himself to walk down the hallway to the loo. He threw open the sash and looked out at the late summer day.  
He was whistling when he returned from the communal bath and the sound trilled then died behind his teeth. Ron was leaning against the wall outside his door. Ron saw him and straightened, taking a tentative step towards him and what could he do but keep moving forward. “Fuck me,” he said softly.

“Not why I’m here.” Ron answered darkly but it made George smile.

“No?”

Ron laughed. “Decidedly.”

The two men stood squared. George said firmly, “If you want something from me you’ve got to tag along. I’m off for breakfast.”

“I’ve had.”

“Of course. They’ll pull you a pint.”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“Milk then. Let’s go.”

A quarter of an hour later they were sharing a table downstairs in the pub, George tucking into a full Scottish, looking at his brother between forkfuls.

A false start, then Ron cleared his throat. “I’m sorry George.” His voice was filled with a choked sound of hesitation, sincerity and grief.

George put down his fork, sat up straighter and looked across the table at his brother. “Go on.”

“That was terrible. Just terrible. And we shouldn’t have asked you,” pause, “to do it. Not for any reason.”

George nodded slightly, looking down at his brother’s hands nervous on the scarred tabletop. He wondered if he had ever known their hands were exactly the same. Long fingers, long square nail beds, smattering of freckles and the riot of red-gold hair along the masculine knuckles. He looked down at his own hands, fingertips pressed against the edge of the wood, tense. He looked back up into Ron’s eyes.

“Thank you. It was terrible.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I made it worse for all that, but still…”

“Yeah, ‘bout that. After you left, that woman, girl really, she kind of freaked out and we all ended up staying and talking about her job and the group. She’s quite new, I guess, that was just her third meeting or something. And the Ministry gave her that group because….well…”

“Well, because that lot is right as rain, been meeting for twenty years. Their dead are long gone and in the ground. Safe in a way. Sorting them would be as easy as pie.” George smiled ruefully. “I’m guessing last night was a first bad night in a long time.”

Ron shrugged. “You threw her for a loop, that’s for sure. She wants to talk to you, apologize or get you to apologize. Not sure. I didn’t tell her where you are.”

“Good. She doesn’t need to talk to me although I do probably owe her an apology, or one to the group at least.” He picked his fork back up.

“George?”

“Mmmm.”

“Is that really how this is for you? All the time like that?”

He ate in silence, one bite then another, then swopping it all up with a thick piece of toast. Ron waited. He pushed the plate aside and reached for the tall glass of orange juice. “Yeah. It is.”

Ron closed his eyes, opened them wet and blinked them dry. “I can’t imagine. I didn’t know.”

“It’s different for the rest of you, eh? It took me years to get that. Years. It’s like it got better for everyone but me.”

“Not better. Easier. It never gets better.”

“But it did get easier? How?”

“Well, I know you said time doesn’t heal, but it does. It did. The sharp pain of it faded, the impossibility of wanting things to be different just had to be given up, let go of.”

“In order to get on, to move forward?”

“Exactly. Yes.”

He drained the glass and set it beside the plate, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and folded it into a long rectangle and dropped it on top of the plate. “You see, Ron, I made the decision to not keep going. To step off. To exist in the pain and the regret. The horror.” He lowered his eyes, watched his fingers twist around one another. “I wanted, needed, to feel that longing. The impossible longing.”

Ron swallowed, the sound audible. “George.”

Now it was his turn to shrug, eyes fastened to his brother’s wounded gaze. “I couldn’t let go of. I just could not.”

 

It was dark. Early evening becoming middling. He was striding towards The Three Broomsticks. He stopped in front of the low slung pub, close enough to touch it far enough to have to lean to do so. He closed his eyes and breathed in a thousand thousand memories. With a single exhale, he let them go, reached out and pushed the door open.


	12. Chapter 12

George looked around the dimly lit pub, moving aside from the door, leaning his head to one side then the other as he looked into each far corner. Wood wasn’t there. He moved slowly towards the bar, nodding at those who nodded at him, wondering who he knew and who knew him. He ordered two pints, one hand splayed open on the bar top, foot kicked up on the lower rung of a barstool, waiting for the barkeep to pull the dark brew and make his change. He felt a slight twinge in his chest, a combination of anticipation and guilt. This marked the second time he had been in Fred’s vicinity and wasn’t seeing his twin. For a brief moment, in the afternoon, he had considered asking Oliver to let him back into the castle after the evening drew to an end…but nothing in that idea felt right. He decided he would owl McGonnagal and ask if he could come up to Hogwarts on Sunday. That plan placated him but now that he was in Hogsmeade he knew he was going to have to battle the temptation to walk up the road and solicit entrance to the school.

He had the two pints and a pocket of heavy change thanks to a small loan from Ron that morning. He moved through the tables and chairs and patrons and sat at the same table they’d occupied the week before.

The door opened and he turned to see Wood duck into the room. The man’s gaze fastened on George at once and a broad smile pulled his mouth wide across his handsome face. George nodded and held one of the pint glasses up. Wood smiled even wider if that was possible and made his way through the room, clapping the odd man on the shoulder, ducking another man’s head and ruffling a pensioner’s thin hair before finally standing in front of George. Oliver took his proffered hand and pulled him into his embrace, his hand hard and wide and fast against George’s back.

George felt as though his arms were filled with life and he reluctantly released him.

Wood turned and caught the attention of the barkeep, he held up two fingers and indicated the table and then shrugged out of a worn peacoat, tossing it on an empty chair and sat.

“George,” he said.

“Oliver,” George answered and the man’s name was rich in his mouth, heavy on his tongue and he let it roll out between his lips like honey.

Oliver cocked an eyebrow at him and then the barkeep was there setting down two tumblers of whisky and arranging a tab for the Hogwarts professor.

Wood picked up the tumbler, running the glass beneath his nose and inhaling the peaty smell of it as though he were bent over a spoon snorting drugs. George watched him and lifted his own glass to his face. The smell was intoxicating.

“You subscribe then to the Seventh Year rhyming - _Beer before liquor never sicker._ ” George laughed.

“ _Liquor before beer all clear._ ” Wood clinked the bottom of his glass against George’s and sipped deeply at the amber liquor. “ _Whiskey and Beer are a man's worst enemies... but the man that runs away from his enemies is a coward!_ ” He upended the remainder of the whisky into his mouth, squinting across the table at George.

“Who said that?”

“I thought I just did.” He laughed. “Nay. I heard it in a song years ago. And I don’t subscribe to that amateur’s rhyme neither.” He sneered happily. “Booze is booze. I drink it so fast there’d be no point in drinking it in a specified order. You?’

“It does make me wonder what a whisky chaser is for.” George sipped at his drink, and then finished it. “ _Never mix the grape and the grain._ That’s a sentiment I try to observe.”

Wood pulled a face. “I don’t drink wine. At all. Not even champers. Never found a taste for it and don’t think I fancy finding one now. Birds drink wine. Whisky’s my poison.” He turned back to the bar and waved two fingers again. “How are you, my man?”

“I’ve been better and I’ve been worse. Good now that the week is over and I’m sitting here, I think.”

“Right? Me, too.”

Both men reached for their pint glasses and George watched Oliver watch him over the rim. Out of nowhere he suddenly felt giddy and realized it was coming from a thorough sense of anticipation. Of what, he could not have said.

Oliver set his glass down and wiped the foam from his dark goatee, flicking it to the floor.

“Cor,” George said enviously. “I’m too clean shaven.”

“Grow one.”

George nodded, running quick fingers over his freshly shaved chin. “Fred and I,” he hesitated, cleared his throat. “We drank an ageing potion once and had beards hanging down to the jewels.”

Oliver laughed out loud. “Yeah?”

He narrowed his eyes, remembering the failed attempt at putting their names into the Tri-Wizard tournament cup. “I was too much this side of hipster to appreciate the cool factor, I suppose. Fred wanted to wear his but the antidote couldn’t be doctored that way. After, he tried growing his own…but it was a sad sad chinstache. We ribbed him hard and that was the end of that.”

Oliver laughed again. “Fred.”

“Mmmm. Fred.”

“To Fred then,” Wood said.

George nodded. “Always to Fred.”

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.” Oliver’s voice was solemn.

George raised his beer glass and drained it, then threw back the second whisky. He was drinking quickly and it was beginning to heat him from the outside in, his fingertips, his nose, and his toes inside his boots were all numbing hot. The long frozen core of him still cold but he relished the opposites of it. He felt overcome, with gratitude to Oliver, and to the fine edge he recognized he was walking along. He could continue to drink at Oliver’s pace and sink deep below the surface of sobriety; that felt comfortable and safe, familiar and known. It called to him in a seductive voice promising some mystery – how he would get home, how much he might misstep into Wood’s space, what flavour of blacked-out memories with silver edges he would wake with tomorrow. He decided to talk instead of drink. “Last night, Merlin’s beard. Last night.”

Oliver seemed to sense the sea change in him and waited.

“Ron and Ginny talked me into attending one of those daft meetings.”

“Wot, like, for drunks?”

George barked out a surprised laugh. “No. No. It was one of those survivors meetings. You know, like group,” he hesitated with the word, “therapy. A headshrinker runs the show and you’re supposed to rip yourself open in front of all these sad sacks who, it turns out, are just like you.”

Wood nodded. “I remember those. They still got them?”

George looked down at his hands, palms wet now with sweat and he rubbed them down the long length of his thighs, feeling the corduroy fabric. “ _Lost in Service._ ” He looked back up into Oliver’s face, the dark eyes serious, fast and steady on his own blue gaze. “I didn’t lose Fred. He was taken from me. Torn right out of my life. Lose? What on this fucken’ earth is that supposed to mean? Was I careless with him? Left him somewhere and returned later to find him gone? Misplaced him? Let go of his hand in a crowd? I can’t stand that word in that context. Really.”

“I don’t blame you, mate.”

“Damn.”

“S’okay, George.”

“No. It’s not. It’s really not. Nearly twenty years and I’m still furious about it.” He looked down at the empty pint and the two drained tumblers beside it. “This helps….” He trailed off from the admission. He caught the telltale sign of his mind beginning to spin slightly and knew that the three drinks in quick succession had gone above and beyond.

“For a while. Aye.”

Oliver was standing and George settled into his chair, waiting for the arrival of the next round and the ubiquitous chaser. Instead, he felt Oliver’s hand burrow beneath his arm, pulling him to his feet. “Where’s your coat then, George?”

“My what?”

“Let’s go for a walk, eh? Get outta here for a bit and we’ll come back round to it, right?”

And then Oliver was helping him shrug into his jacket, slinging his own across his broad shoulders, the press of his arm hard and fast against his, guiding him through the pub. George saw him nod to the barkeep and then the two of them were outside, standing clear and free in the night air and he could breathe and his mind steadied and beside him he felt the warm breathing presence of this other man outlined solidly, corporeal, somatic and immediate. He knew, without looking, the shape and form of Oliver’s body next to his elbow. As they moved into the street, the aching feel of walking beside another man mirroring the size and shape of his own size and shape, the movements shared, the experience shared, stepping forward together, filled him and with a small wonder George realized it was pleasure not pain suffusing his senses.


End file.
